


Getting Better

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amputation, Angst, Father Figures, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Sherlock Is Not Okay, pseudo-sons, recovery fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not okay after his abuse in Serbia. But with Lestrade's help, he's getting better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Better

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I just really want fic that shows the fallout from the emotional/physical/mental torture Sherlock endured while he was away. And Greg taking care of him/comforting him, of course.
> 
> ________________________________________________________
> 
> This series contains a stand alone stories that were prompted or otherwise posted on my tumblr page. They have not been beta'd and are just flights of fancy.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes.

Sherlock hadn’t been expecting the hug. When Lestrade’s arms wrapped around him he felt his lungs compress and wheeze out what little air they held. He groaned slightly, but let him hold onto him as long as it took. His back ached badly from the rough treatment it had endured the night before, and could help the gasp of agony that came to his lips as soon as Lestrade shifted his grip so his arm was squeezing against his spine.

 

The DI threw himself away from Sherlock, stepping back in horror. “You’re hurt.” Sherlock opened his mouth to deny it, but Lestrade’s hand reached out to touch cheek. His thumb grazed across the cut on his lip, and hovered over the bruise on his nose

 

“Ah, that. Inconsequential.” Sherlock waved off the concern easily. “John…wasn’t happy to see me.”

 

“John did that?” Lestrade didn’t seem know whether to be amused or repulsed, and he settled for uncertainty. He dropped his hand to his side, but his brows were still furrowed in concentration.

 

“Granted I did ruin his date.”

 

“Status quo then?” Lestrade offered in a poor attempt at humor.

 

“So it would seem.” Sherlock shifted his weight slightly, and a flash of pain danced across his features.

 

“How bad did he hurt you?” Lestrade asked firmly.

 

“It really wasn’t much.” Sherlock’s hands slipped into his coat pockets, and Lestrade looked around.

 

“We should talk. Are you on a mission?”

 

“You’re handling this better than I could have possibly foreseen.”

 

“I’ve had two years of Anderson telling me every day that you were alive. I guess it left room for hope.”

 

“Ah.” Sherlock’s tongue sought his cut lip and he glanced towards Lestrade’s car. “Perhaps we should discuss things more privately?”

 

“Sure, anything you want.” Lestrade led the way, and Sherlock followed behind. The DI’s posture was tipped forwards. He was happy, delighted even. He was surprised, but so pleased that it practically radiated from his pores. Every few seconds Lestrade would glance back at him to confirm that he was still there, and then he would grin widely at him. “It’s so good to have you back, lad.” Sherlock smiled in reply and nodded his head.

 

Lestrade opened the door to his car for him, and Sherlock slowly lowered himself into the seat. His back was burning badly, and he could feel sweat start to peak out from his brow. His fingers were shaking at his sides, and he clenched and unclenched them in a desperate attempt to force them steady.

 

He could feel Lestrade’s excitement shifting into something fast approaching concern, and his stomach flipped at the feeling. He should go. He shouldn’t be here right now. Mycroft was right, he should have taken a few more days off after seeing John. He wasn’t well enough for this.

 

“Did you know that Anderson came up with one hundred and one different ways you could have survived that fall?”

 

“Did he now? Any of them good?” Sherlock asked curiously.

 

“The last one included Derren Brown.” The response made him laugh. It wasn’t much of a laugh, granted, but it was more than he’d managed in a while. He smiled and tried to imagine the scenario. It would have been nice if that was the case.

 

“There were thirteen scenarios once I got on that roof.” Sherlock murmured.

 

Lestrade listened to all thirteen by the time they reached his flat.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Lestrade guided Sherlock to sit on his sofa and then hurried to the kitchen to make tea. The flat was quiet. The neighbors were gone and Lestrade hadn’t turned his radio on like he normally did. There was a pleasant kind of quiet here, and Sherlock embraced it as he carefully shifted into a more comfortable position.

 

Lestrade hurried back to the sitting room and crouched before Sherlock, looking at him in wonder. “You’re really here.” He whispered for what seemed like the fifth time that hour.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock murmured in agreement.

 

“All these years…I hoped, but I just…” He reached out and pressed his hand against Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock flinched away, he hadn’t meant to. It was an accident. There was no chance that Lestrade missed that either. Sherlock grimaced and set his tea down on the stand closest to him. Then, he pulled off his coat and jacket. He reached for the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them up. He bared his wrists before Lestrade before he could talk himself out of it.

 

The scars on his wrists were still healing. Mycroft’s surgeons had done a wonderful job stitching the skin together and blending it all into a smooth surface, but it had only been two months since his rescue. It would take far more than that to make the scars difficult to find. Lestrade took hold of Sherlock’s wrists and ran his fingers across them.

 

“You were…held prisoner?” It was a naïve guess, and Sherlock wished that he still had some form of innocence within him that made him think things like that.

 

“Captured.” Lestrade looked closer. There were some lines that ran around his wrist that were far less recent, but had scarred nonetheless.

 

“More than once.”

 

“Yes, four times I think.” None of those occasions had been pleasant.

 

“What happened after you jumped? Were you alone for those two years?”

 

“No. No. Vic-Victor was with me.” Lestrade’s fingers tightened on Sherlock’s wrists. His hands were shaking again.

 

“Did he make it back with you?” Sherlock nodded dumbly, but then grimaced and shook his head. “How bad off?”

 

“They amputated his left leg under his knee. He’s being kept sedated for now. Forced coma. Systemic infections and…and…” He’s shaking badly now, and his words fall short. There was a lot that he had endured over the years, but none of that hurt nearly as much as when the trap had snapped shut around Victor’s ankle and neatly severed bone and flesh alike.

 

Victor screamed.

 

In all their years together as a team and as friends, Sherlock had never heard Victor make sounds that. The noise seared itself across his consciousness, burned his synapses and became a permanent blemish in his mind. And only moments after hearing Victor scream in agony- he’d abandoned the only one who had been with him on his journey, and ran away.

 

He was going to be sick. Sherlock twisted, struggling to his feet. His back seared in pain, and he stumbled blindly forwards. Lestrade caught him firmly and dragged him to the kitchen. He practically shoved Sherlock’s head over the sink and Sherlock gagged as bile heaved up from his mouth. He coughed pathetically, shivering and shaking.

 

He was suddenly overheated, and one hand scrambled to tug buttons out of their holes. Lestrade made a vague noise of protest before he conceded defeat and helped Sherlock with his shirt. Cool air flew against his back, and he nearly wept from relief. He fumbled next for the tap, turning it on cool and letting his head duck under the spray.

 

He felt like his head was on fire, burning and melting away at everything. His spine ached so much. It screeched its own cry of pain and it dug into every nerve and synapse he possessed. His stomach squeezed again and he choked as he dispelled the remnants of whatever meal he last ate. Water from the faucet started to drift towards his nose, and Lestrade moved it out of the way to keep him from drowning as he vomited.

 

Sherlock felt his knees starting to shake from the effort to stand, and Lestrade looped an arm around his waist to support him. “Up or down, Sherlock.” Lestrade asked him, voice rough from emotion, and he considered his options. Down would be harder to get up from, but up wasn’t doing so well at the moment. He didn’t know how long he’d last like this.

 

“Down.” He managed to get out. He caught some of the tap water and swirled it in his mouth. He spat it back out and repeated the process until his mouth and face were clean and the sink had drained his mess.

 

Then and only then did Lestrade start to slowly guide him to the floor. He took a deep breath and wrapped an arm across his stomach in a vague effort to comfort it and make it stay still for one moment. He coughed, clearing his throat, and then looked towards Lestrade.

 

The DI was sheet white, and all delight, joy, and even worry, had faded from his features. He didn’t look like any of the above. Instead, he was stricken. He was horrified, almost afraid. Sherlock blinked at him, trying to work out what had changed. It couldn’t have been the sick spell- Lestrade had been there countless times in the past while he was puking. This was something else. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, when it struck him.

 

He looked down. Scars littered his body. Bullet wounds, stab wounds, burn marks. That was only his front. Lestrade had seen his back. Deep scars ran across his flesh in violent bursts. They overlapped each other and cut deep into the panels of his trapezius and oblique muscles. Each stretch and move was an effort, and his spine didn’t make things much better.

 

“How long?” Lestrade asked quietly. “This last time? How long were you there?”

 

“Two weeks. They stabilized Victor. They had to. They wanted him to talk. They didn’t give him anything for the pain, I could hear him-”

 

“You, lad. They hurt you too.” Sherlock blinked up at him. The pain in his back didn’t matter, the scars he had from the past two years didn’t matter, couldn’t Lestrade understand that?

 

“I left to keep you safe.” Sherlock said quietly. “You, Mrs. Hudson, John…I was supposed to keep you safe. _Everyone I ever loved_. That was the plan. I commit suicide, and you’re all safe.”

 

“What about your brother? Victor? Molly”

 

“Moriarty didn’t think they were important. Mycroft always told me that the more I cared for someone, the more of a target they became. I pushed them all away…everyone away…and they were the only ones safe in the end. Mycroft was right. Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock’s voice broke. He dropped his gaze, and felt his hot flash inverse immediately. He was cold suddenly, and he shivered violently as his skin erupted into gooseflesh. “I cared for Victor, and he stepped on a _bear trap_ of all things, and lost his leg.”

 

“That wasn’t your fault.”

  
“Whose fault was it?” Sherlock asked, desperate for an answer. “He wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me. He’d…he’d be on a dig in Egypt, doing what he loves best. And John-” Sherlock clenched his eyes closed. “John wouldn’t have been hurt if I’d never known him.”

 

“There are one hundred and one different reasons why that’s full of shit, Sherlock.” Lestrade informed him primly. “And you’re not going to listen to any of them even if I tell you them all. Victor’s alive. We all are. You saved us all. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you.” Lestrade reached out and pulled him to his chest for a hug. Sherlock actually returned it this time.

 

Lestrade had received dozens of different scenarios of how Sherlock survived his fall, but not one of them included how he would feel afterwards. Lestrade was prepared for his revival, but he wasn’t prepared for this.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock had nightmares that bordered on the violent. Lestrade woke up, heart in his throat, to the sound of _screams_. He kicked off his blankets and stumbled into the sitting room. Sherlock was thrashing on the sofa so much the DI could hardly believe that he was still on the sofa.

 

He threw on the light and rushed to his side. “Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Wake up, lad. I need you to wake up.” He reached out to touch the younger man’s arm. The world flipped on its axis and he yelped as suddenly he was lying flat on his back. Sherlock was kneeling over his body and a TV remote was pressed against his throat. Sherlock had somehow captured both of his wrists and pinned them above his head even as he leaned low to Lestrade’s ear.

 

Sherlock was hissing something in a language that Lestrade couldn’t even hope to recognize. It sounded like…German? Russian? He didn’t know. He pulled in a breath of air, and Sherlock hissed at him some more. Vowels and consonants bled together and Sherlock’s eyes weren’t focused in the least as he continued his diatribe.

 

“Sherlock? _William._ ” The remote was thrown to the side, and suddenly Sherlock’s hands were wrapped tightly around his throat. Sherlock was spitting out those foreign words, and Lestrade felt his windpipe begin to strain under Sherlock’s grip.

 

He grimaced, knowing this would hurt the younger man, but having no intention of dying here. He threw a hand up and back and it smashed into Sherlock’s back. The former consulting detective yelped in pain and his grip lifted just enough for Lestrade to shove Sherlock off of him.

 

The younger man curled into a ball- one hand up and waving off any continuing attacks, while the other wrapped around his body. “William?” Lestrade asked, quietly. “William?” Sherlock wasn’t responding. He wasn’t saying a damn thing. Lestrade looked around him nervously, before glancing at the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.” He pushed himself to his feet and hurried out of the room. Flicking on the kitchen lights, he turned a kettle on. He rushed to the linen closet in the hall and yanked a thick duvet from its bowls.

 

He returned to the sitting room and carefully draped the blanket over Sherlock’s body. He left and went back to the kitchen and quickly fixed a mug of tea. Returning to Sherlock’s side, he placed the mug close to where he could reach it. Then he stepped away and waited.

 

It took nearly two hours. Lestrade spoke softly the whole time, using Sherlock’s given name as often as possible. He recalled old memories, and even spoke freely about his son while Sherlock had been away. Each time the steam faded from the mug, Lestrade emptied it out and refilled it. Sherlock didn’t so much as look at it once during those two hours. It was only after the fifteenth mug of tea was deposited by his palm did he quietly reach towards it.

 

“Don’t try to shake me awake again.” Sherlock whispered from under the blankets. “I…apologize.”

 

“How should I wake you up next time?”

 

“Stay out of arm reach…say ‘Red Beard.’”

 

“Your dog? That was your dog’s name wasn’t it?”

 

“Mycroft came up with it. Not the name…the code. Red Beard always calmed me. When I was scared or alone he was always there. It’s a failsafe. It will usually wake me up.” Lestrade nodded. “Did I…hurt you?”

 

“No. No, lad. I’m fine. See?” He held his arms back. “Come here, lad.” Sherlock shivered violently as he peered out from under the blanket. He pushed himself upwards, wincing as his back seared with pain. He walked unsteadily towards him and reached a shaking palm out to touch Lestrade’s throat. It was slightly swollen from his earlier treatment. “I’m fine. Do you understand me? I’m fine.”

 

“I should go. I should have stayed at Mycroft’s.”

 

“No, no – it’s fine. I made a mistake. ”

 

“You sound like an abused wife.” Sherlock’s hand dropped back to his side and he looked towards the door.

 

“If I was, I wouldn’t have hurt you right back. And I _did_ hurt you. How’s your back?”

 

“Inconsequential.”

 

Lestrade scowled and shook his head. “You’re so full of shit.”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock spent the next week in Lestrade’s home. He’d informed Molly and Mrs. Hudson of his return, and the latter told him the flat needed tidying before he could move back in. Lestrade expressed his discontent at the idea that Sherlock would be by himself the whole time, and he encouraged Sherlock to stay for a while just to get his feet under him. This was even more important when the media got news of his survival. Baker Street was mobbed and the last thing any of them needed was for Sherlock’s nightmares to make front-page news.

 

The nightmares were a daily occurrence. Sherlock flinched if he was startled; his hands went immediately for the closest weapon or pressure point. Lestrade found himself thrown into more walls and pieces of furniture during that week than he cared to think about.

 

“What can I do to help?” He asked Sherlock quietly.

 

“Nothing. Sorry. It’ll get better. I promise.”

 

“William, I know it’ll get better. I’d just like to help you in any way I can. You saved my life- let me save yours.” Sherlock was quiet for a while, before he finally nodded.

 

“I want to get back to basics. I want to go home. Have cases again. Stop…hiding. I’m tired of hiding.”

 

“Are you retiring from your mantle as a double oh?” Sherlock blinked at him blankly. Lestrade sighed. “I will actually make you watch those movies one day.” He muttered. “Are you a civilian now? From now on? No more acting as a secret agent?”

 

“No. I’m still helping my brother.” Sherlock informed him quietly. “I’m helping him now. Supposed to be anyway. There’s been a terrorist threat…I’ll stop it.”

 

“Try focusing on yourself for once. Ya?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock shrugged. “Have you seen Victor? Since you got back?” He watched as the younger man’s face fell. He shook his head, keeping his eyes directed to the floor. “Maybe you should?”

 

“What would that do? Will sitting at his side make any difference at all? Will holding his hand impact him in any way? He’s in an induced coma for God’s sake, my presence-”

 

“Is not for him. Granted. It’s for you.”

 

“I know exactly what he looks like. You forget, Lestrade, that I couldn’t forget it even if I wanted to.” Sherlock made a rude gesture towards his own skull, and Lestrade scowled at him. “Which hospital is he at?” At the genius’ frown, he continued. “We’re going. Come on. You can give me directions.”

 

“I’m not going.” Sherlock told him firmly.

 

“Yes you are.”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s illogical-”

 

“You’re doing nothing else all day today, going to visit the man you spent the past two years with while taking apart a criminal organization, and getting tortured in the process, is not illogical. It’s perfectly sound logic. We’re going.” Lestrade collected his coat and his keys, and was already starting to open the door before Sherlock slowly started to follow him out.

 

Lestrade just hoped that this was the right thing to do.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

In some ways, Victor was better off than Sherlock. He was laying on a nice bed, and receiving all the nutrients he needed to keep him alive and well. The various cuts and bruises he’d received in Serbia had faded, and any other broken bones he’d had had healed already. He wasn’t a medical man, but Lestrade couldn’t help but feel as though the coma was a bit overkill. Lestrade’s eyes were drawn to his left leg, It was hidden under the blankets, but the missing limb was still obvious.

 

Sherlock was frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on the empty space on the bed. His face drained of color, and Lestrade opened his mouth to stop him, but he never had the chance. Sherlock twisted and fled the room, running out of it as fast as his body would allow.  Lestrade hurried after him, easily overtaking the younger man in the car park. Sherlock was shaking again, adrenaline thrumming through his veins with no place to go. When Lestrade reached out to him, he recoiled badly. _“Don’t touch me!”_ He shouted, sucking in a deep breath as he blinked rapidly. His eyes landed on Lestrade’s face and he shook his head. “I don’t want to be here. I’ll walk home if I must.”

 

“Bollocks.” Lestrade said firmly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

 

“Nothing! Nothing is going on! I don’t want to be here. I told you that. I told you I didn’t want to be here. Why the hell did I come?” Sherlock’s legs started moving, and he paced back and forth. Ten feet one direction, heel turn, ten feet the other.

 

“Because he’s your friend.”

 

“He’s not my friend.” Sherlock replied shortly.

 

“Because you need to get over this.”

 

“Get over _what_?” Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “What am I meant to get over?”

 

“Victor’s alive. You got a message out to Mycroft, both of you came home. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“He lost his leg!”

 

“It could have been his life.” Sherlock shook his head.

 

“No. No, I’m not doing this right now. I’m leaving. I’m going back to Baker Street. I-I’m done.” He pushed passed Lestrade and started to walk down the street. The DI scowled in frustration and quickly climbed in his car. He drove it around until he was right alongside his young friend.

 

“Get in, I’ll drive you over. I won’t say another word.” Sherlock ignored him completely, and threw a hand up in the air. A cab, as it always did with Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes, immediately stopped for him. Lestrade watched it pull away, and he clenched his hands tightly around the steering wheel. “Bollocks.” He cursed again, before pulling out onto the main road and driving home.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock did an interview for one of the news agencies, and it went viral immediately. Other papers instantly reported that the detective was back in business and accepting clients. Within the week- clients were popping up at Baker Street ready to pick up where he left off. Some were more journalists trying to get an inside look at the “Ghost Detective,” but a fair majority were actual interested parties looking for help.  Lestrade scanned his workload for cases that he could toss at Sherlock, and eventually pulled up a more recent one that they had received.

 

**_Got a case…interested? GL_ **

****

The reply was instant:

 

**_When and where? SH_ **

****

Lestrade sent the information over, and prepared to meet him at the crime scene. He hadn’t expected to see Molly Hooper at Sherlock’s side, and it was actually quite sad to see her. He always liked Molly, it was nothing to do with her, but Sherlock had been back for nearly three weeks by now, and John still wasn’t in the picture. He tentatively brought it up to Sherlock, noting that the cut on his lip had faded and the bruising around his nose had dissipated as well. Sherlock confirmed his suspicions.

 

One friend was grievously injured; the other wanted nothing to do with Sherlock. Lestrade wondered if it would be possible for the detective to catch a break sometime in the near future. It was unlikely.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Lestrade woke up to the sound of pounding on his front door. He hurried out of bed immediately, throwing it open to find Sherlock standing there. He pushed passed Lestrade immediately, and started to walk fitfully from one side of the flat to the other. “What’s going on?”

 

“John was attacked.”

 

“What? Where? When?”

 

“Earlier tonight. He was put in a bonfire. Guy Fawkes. Mary told me about it. We found him, pulled him out.”

 

“His girlfriend, Mary?”

 

“Yes. You’ve met?” Sherlock was moving at blinding speed. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

 

“Briefly.” Lestrade conceded. He frowned. They pulled him out? “How’s your back?” The question seemed to be all that he needed. Sherlock’s feet snapped together and he stood rigid in the hall. “I’ll get some pain-killers.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “John all right?”

 

“Yes. Fine. Overnight in hospital for observation.” Lestrade dug into his cabinet for his strongest pills, and overflow from when he’d been shot years ago. They probably didn’t go bad, and Sherlock clearly needed something.

 

“Which hospital?”

 

“Which do you think?” Sherlock snapped, and the pacing began again. Successfully locating the bottle, Lestrade leaned back on his heels as he considered the response. Of all the hospitals in London, John had to go to the one that Sherlock wanted to avoid at all costs.

 

“Did you see him?” He asked quietly.

 

“He’s out of his coma.” Sherlock replied. Back and forth, back and forth. Lestrade lobbed the pill bottle to him, and he shook two out without looking at it and dry swallowed them both.

 

“Oi! Careful!” Lestrade shouted. Sherlock gave him a halfhearted apology, and tossed the bottle back. “Was he awake?”

 

“Marginally. He said my name. I left.”

 

“Ah.” Bit not good that. Sherlock glared at him. He obviously agreed, and was in no mood for judgment. “What do you want from me?”

 

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

 

“Want to spend the night?” Lestrade hazarded. Sherlock hesitated in his stride, and looked sidelong towards the sofa.

 

“If it…is not too disagreeable.”

 

“No. Of course it’s not. I’ll get you set up.” He went to collect some blankets and pillows. On his way passed the kitchen he turned on the kettle. He’d be up all night, he was sure of it, but it was worth it. It really was.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock and John were back together. Partners in solving crime. They saved parliament, caught a terrorist, and things were back to normal on Baker Street. Sort of. Sherlock now lived alone, and John was getting married, but still. Status-somewhat-quo. Lestrade stayed around for a while after everyone else left. They all said their goodbyes, and Sherlock gave Molly a quick peck on the cheek, wishing her and her fiancée well. (And seriously, had _everyone_ decided to get hitched while Sherlock away?) Mrs. Hudson went downstairs, bustling about and doing Mrs. Hudson like things, and Lestrade stayed on the sofa and looked up at Sherlock’s defeated posture. Sherlock was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He needed a break.

 

“John doesn’t know how you did it.” He said softly.

 

“No. He never will.”

 

“And about those two years?”

 

“He doesn’t know about Victor’s existence, how exactly am I to explain his presence?”

 

“So…aside from Molly, your brother, and I – no one else knows about Victor or what transpired while you were gone?”

 

“No.”

 

“How’s the pain?”

 

“It’s manageable.”

 

“What can I do to help?”

 

“I just need cases. Things to take my mind off…all the rest. Can you do that?” He could. Lestrade nodded solemnly. He most certainly could.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Lestrade gave Sherlock every strange case he could think of. He gave them to him frequently, sometimes more than one at a time. Sherlock solved each one faster than the last. Some color came back to his cheeks, and he looked even brighter and more relaxed as time went on.

 

Lestrade visited Victor at the hospital every other week, just to see how he was doing. He was surprisingly accepting of his lot in life, and determined to walk again soon. Talk of prosthetics and therapy increased, and his spirits generally seemed to be on the up.

 

Sherlock never visited. Victor, apparently, didn’t expect him to. He just shrugged whenever Lestrade asked about it and said it didn’t matter. He understood. Lestrade wished that he did.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Sherlock texted Lestrade in the middle of a case, begging for help, Lestrade feared the worst. He imagined a psychotic break, a relapse on drugs, an attack from foreign parties desperate to maim Sherlock as best they could. He imagined hellfire and damnation, and Lestrade called for every person he could think of to relocate at Sherlock’s home.

 

It was for naught.

 

Lestrade could have killed him.

 

“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously, you never have before.” Sherlock explained awkwardly as the dozens of officers returned to their regularly scheduled programs.

 

“You were never in so much danger before.” Lestrade snapped back, on edge and furious.

 

“I was always in danger, Graham-”

 

“It’s ‘ _Greg!’_ You know it’s ‘Greg!’ You really do!” Sherlock pressed his lips together and looked away, and Lestrade felt his tension flood out of him. He felt like a bastard. He knew all the reasons why Sherlock refused to call him by his given name. He knew it wasn’t personal. He knew there was nothing he could do to convince Sherlock otherwise. It really didn’t bother him enough to shout at the younger man, and his anger had been misplaced. He’d been terrified only moments before, and Sherlock was a convenient target. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No. I am. I’ll…work on it.” Sherlock told him softly, still not meeting his eyes.

 

“Sherlock.” He reached a hand out and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s fine. It always has been.”

 

“You become progressively more upset about it as time goes on.”

 

“I know. I’ll work on that. I’m sorry.”

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about…Greg.” Sherlock forced the name from his lips. It sounded sour. Lestrade sighed. Now wasn’t the time.

 

“You needed help on your speech?”

 

“Yes. Yes, if you would.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock got better. The world spun on without slowing down, and he eventually caught up with it. Months passed. Mary and John left on their honeymoon, and Sherlock went undercover for a case that ended in him getting shot and escaping the hospital. “What happened?” Lestrade asked him after they found him and put him right back where he belonged.

 

“Nothing. I don’t know. Morphine playing tricks on me.” Sherlock mumbled drowsily. Lestrade didn’t buy it for a second.

 

“Was it Victor?” Same hospital. It was always the same hospital. Sherlock shook his head against the pillows.

 

“No…did seem him though.”

 

“Did you?” It was surprising. He hadn’t expected to hear that. “He’s walking now.”

 

“I know.” Sherlock’s lips weren’t smiling exactly, but they weren’t frowning either. It was more of an amused grimace.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“I was shot.”

 

“Not what I meant.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Well…are you?” Sherlock hesitated.

 

“I will be.” He replied. It was the most truthful answer Lestrade had gotten in a long time.

 

“I’ll be here if you need me.” He promised. This time, Sherlock did smile. His eyes were dropping and he was starting to slip away under the morphine, but he managed one final statement before he went to sleep.

 

“I know.” His body relaxed and he breathed deep, sleeping soundly in minutes. He deserved a peaceful slumber. Reaching forwards, Lestrade pressed a hand to Sherlock’s curls. He leaned down and kissed his forehead.

 

“Sleep well, lad.” He wished him softly. Then he stood up to leave. He was getting better. He really was, and Lestrade couldn’t be more grateful for that.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt you want filled? Want to just say hi? Let me know!
> 
> falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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